LIBYANS: Expired Language: LP

May 20, 2014

I avoid nostalgia. I’m too young to genuinely miss anything. Yet, every so often a band is labeled as the resurgence of “classic punk” or “real punk,” as if these commentators remain paralyzed in the past and have only a hyper-shallow well of music terminology. These descriptors mean worse than nothing, they’re a waste of breath. Let the dinosaur music journalists at Rolling Stone attempt to maintain their extinct relationship to “punk rock.” Their “hot, young punk bands” aren’t moving me. Libyans are sure to become a magnet for these types of labels. It would also be too easy to say that they’re a return to form: angry, youthful, conscientious, angular. These tags are overly simplistic as well as a major disservice to these Bostonians. Libyans are a well-oiled engine. They fire on all cylinders and crash into the eardrums, leaving an irreparable crater in the brain’s right hemisphere. They are both a product of a continually unraveling history of discontent and an entirely unique entity. And, sure, they are angry, youthful, conscientious, and angular, but by no means are these songs nostalgic. Nostalgia is morphine, numbing the mind, slacking the jaw. Libyans are alert and aware, lurking in the foxhole of your subconscious and ensuring you remain rooted in present tense. Black Flag be damned. 

 –Sean Arenas (Sorry State,